


"The Dreadful Scrapbook" by Predatrix

by Nefertiti_22002



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-09 09:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8885428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nefertiti_22002/pseuds/Nefertiti_22002
Summary: On a rainy day in late 1804, when he is still living at Hurtfew Abbey, Mr Norrell takes shelter in a York bookshop and buys some non-magical volumes. One proves to be a scrapbook of erotic images and clippings assembled by a gentlemen who preferred gentlemen. Mr Norrell discovers previously unknown pleasures as a result and becomes somewhat addicted to the scrapbook. Childermass learns of this and treats his master to some shared pleasure. Can he woo Mr Norrell away from The Dreadful Scrapbook?





	1. An unusual discovery in a York bookshop

**Author's Note:**

> This tale was largely drafted by Predatrix before she left the fandom (temporarily, I hope!). She gave this and other fics to me to finish and post. The Dreadful Scrapbook was nearly completed, and I have revised it a bit, given it a clearer chronology, divided it into chapters (the titles of which are mine) and added an ending. Most of it is hers, a fact which I could only indicate fully by putting her into the title.

_November 1804_

It was a momentous rainstorm. Not only because Norrell was out in it (which was unlikely in itself) but because having come to York to have his wig and five-yearly set of clothes fitted and being on his way back to the carriage, the nearest shelter in sight was Troutbeck's bookshop. He would have thought he had no need to enter its door--Childermass kept him well-apprised of any magical volumes that might turn up--but although in the abstract he approved of good English rain as a patriotic form of precipitation, he had no particular desire to get wet through in November. 

Which explained why he spent a very pleasant afternoon rummaging through books. The book-seller had evidently sized him up correctly as a wealthy but unsociable man and let him enjoy himself. He had forgotten the pleasure of looking at ordinary books! How long had it been since he'd just looked, rather than looking-for? When the book-seller mentioned that the side room was for new unsorted books, he settled down in there. 

When Childermass came in, muttering, "Might've guessed I'd find you in here, sir," Mr Norrell jumped. He could not quite bear to put aside his new non-magical amusement, so he quickly grabbed five largish books from a pile he hadn't inspected yet, got Childermass to carry the heavier half of them, and trotted up to pay. 

In the carriage on the way back, Childermass eyed him with some surprise. "Could have sworn I often enough keep an eye on Troutbeck's. I didn't think anything would slip past."

Mr Norrell explained about having a casual afternoon just looking around. "And for all I know one of these may be a book of magic, Childermass, and even if not it might be interesting."

Childermass nodded. "If you find a book on account-managing, sir, I'd be obliged t'ye."

"I told you before, Childermass, a gentleman should manage his own estate." His uncle had been very definite on the subject, even if Norrell hadn't listened much at the time. "I should be able to clear some time from my studies for it in ... four years or so at most," he continued reasonably.

Childermass snorted and looked down his nose in a way he particularly disliked. "If you find such an unusual estate where the servants require no pay and books can be bought without money, sir, we should move there directly. Otherwise _someone_ needs to look over what comes in and goes out day by day." Long acquaintance let Mr Norrell fill in the _and it's not going to be you, is it_ that hung at the end of this. Long acquaintance being nearly fourteen years now, the man did have a point.

Mr Norrell was too refined to snort. He gave a small irritable sniff, and looked out of the window. 

At home (regretting the loss of his previous clothes, which were ideally-comfortable after five years' wear and had been replaced), Mr Norrell settled down in the library with his mysterious haul.

The first was about bees, everything from lore-and-legends to practical apiculture, and was surprisingly interesting and useful. He took notes and cross-referred them to magical applications. He had known honey was pleasant and came from bees, but the writer told him about another sort of bee entirely, which went from flower to flower and made sure that they would be in some way fruitful. This would be extremely useful in any number of spells involving farming, seasons, and improving the soil. These were not his concern, but they were important.

There were also a number of pieces of lore involving telling one's bee-hive of the news of the household, especially when it involved plants or agricultural matters. There were a couple of herb-beds in the kitchen garden that needed care, and the Raven King's pear-tree had very little yield. Not that he thought the old King cared for Yorkshire enough now to come back and reckon with them, but it was part of magical history. He had been so busy with his studies he might not even have introduced himself to the bees when his uncle died, and he ought to do that. Bees wanted to know whose household they were in, if the householder was a magician, and details of the fertility and nature of the garden and its plants. 

The second was about accounting. He tried, he tried _very hard,_ to find it interesting, but he could find no magical implications whatsoever and his eyelids had started drooping. With a sigh, he carried it to the small desk Childermass used and laid it down.

The third book was a book of quite elaborate engravings, which would have pleased him but for the pervasive air of gloom and a number of very tall and stern statues of the Raven King. The more civilised pictures of people walking or riding in quiet fields, or sitting at home by the fire, he liked very well. But without words he could find little relevance to his work.

The fourth book involved the decorative and other uses of materials in various types of vessels. It was very interesting and helpful: he had known a little about the proper use of silver in a magician's bowl, but he was now soaking up information about how copper or tin or gold or electrum could also be used with particular substances, and the meanings of types of wood. Even the most pragmatic uses of ceramic for a tea-pot or chamber-pot could be affected by different types of ware, and the glaze, colour and design could make all the difference in rendering the thing pleasant to look upon rather than merely useful. He took a fair number of notes on the subject. 

After so much note-taking, he paused for a cup of sweet chocolate by the fire. Idly he picked up the last book, thinking he might as well decide whether it held any useful content. It was the largest of the five, far too large to take up space on a shelf if it had no bearing on his work.

It appeared to be a novel. He sighed, and prepared to be bored by conversations, probably involving hats or the taking of tea, as he understood that novels were the province of ladies, who were greatly concerned with such things. And ribbons, possibly. Not that most gentlemen were any better, for he had no desire to converse upon the proper tying of a neckcloth, the judgment of horseflesh or the thrill of hunting.

The above ruminations had taken him some minutes as his eye roved lazily over the first few pages. Then he sat bolt upright and gulped, as he realised quite how different this was.

It was not precisely a novel, although it was certainly not a work on magic or natural philosophy or the arts or ... anything a gentleman with any pretensions to respectability had any business glancing at, let alone examining in detail.

Neatly extracted clippings from other works filled the pages, images and tales. It appeared to be a wealthy man's collection of ... lewdness, a man with the money to deface books in search of what he might consider "the good parts". He sniffed disapprovingly. He did remember, of course, that when he found a book of magic in which one or two spells alone deserved preserving for posterity, he had never scrupled to have recourse to a knife, but that was another matter entirely, since it was for a proper purpose and not idle pleasure.

He turned back to the front page. There the gentleman had scrawled (what a detestable habit!) that this work was "Master JAMES BATES' Best Thesaurus of Exemplary Esoterica". A man showing off his learning in not just the word "esoterica", but the Latin word for "treasury". Despite this, Mr Norrell would be very much surprised if his name was "Bates", or even "James". A momentary suspicion crossed his mind, and he removed the Christian name to come up with a rather juvenile pun. He winced. 

He had heard of such collections, of course. He had even perused some of one once, out of sheer curiosity. Maidens queuing up to be defiled by bawds, or pirates, or less-scrupulous maidens, or foreign gentlemen with harems, or nuns, or priests. Nothing had heated his blood, and he had shrugged, moved on, and assumed he did not have the inclination.

This work made only one small, simple adjustment to the standard model. It did not concentrate on maidens. At least not maiden _females._ Oh, God! Some of the pieces were—shockingly—from the viewpoint of _most unladylike_ ladies, for the ladies were all looking at men. Other pieces concentrated on boys. He could only be glad he had not encountered such a work in his delicate formative years. It would have played the very D--l with his concentration.

He had to put the book down. He felt faint. The thought struck into him like--like he did not know what! His ... bodily processes seemed elementally-changed, a sort of fire in his cheeks and groin, water in his limbs when he thought to move, his lungs nearly forgetting to breathe. His hands scrabbled and shoved between his legs, but he was not thinking about something so co-ordinated as undoing his clothes, simply that he must have pressure where he _ached._ He closed his eyes tightly, and the first image in the book, a beautiful boy quite naked, came before his mental vision. Suddenly the feeling shot through him again, tightened, pierced and fell where he clutched himself desperately. He gasped for about ten minutes before it occurred to him to connect the experience to onanism, or even to pleasure. _That...happened,_ he thought dazedly, _that happened._ And he hadn't even locked the door!

He performed a very simple spell for becoming clean and dry, which took half-an-hour to get right, despite the fact that he'd performed it every time he'd gone outside for ingredients and got wet and muddy.

He was relieved to realize that the failure of the spell was simply down to the technical difficulty of changing it from "keep the mess (mud, weather) outside my clothes from coming in" to "clean up the mess I made inside my clothes". If it weren't for that, he'd have to start worrying about the regrettable incident affecting him somehow. It had been extremely unsatisfactory, but it had also been a good deal more intense than his occasional fumbling at himself at the dead of night.

He tried not to think about it, which of course meant he spent rather a lot of time thinking about it, or at least thinking about not-thinking about it. This was irritating. He did not even precisely _want_ a young, beautiful boy, let alone such a creature being above his touch by any rational measure. It had just been the first image he had ever seen where a male person was by implication set out for the enjoyment of a male viewer.

He spent three days working on vessels of containment with the other book and developed a project for a small box of rowan-wood reinforced with little struts of cold iron, designed to preserve a few important spells from the attention of the Fairies.

As soon as he finished laying out the preliminary notes, the thought of that ... other book floated to the top of his mind, as if it had merely been waiting for a gap in his concentration. He might as well see if it was _actually_ so appallingly-filthy as it had seemed at first.

He locked the library door, prepared to be disgusted and revolted, and lay back in the chair by the fire with the book. The Dreadful Scrapbook, as it were.

The first piece he opened to went with the picture he'd seen before. It was in Latin, and attributed to Petronius Arbiter. It had _certainly not_ been in the edition he had read when he was younger. For good reason. A rogue of a tutor despoiled his charge with promises of bribery, seducing him even as the boy both swoons with reluctant response and says, "stop it or I'll call my father." The punchline being that the greedy boy demands his embraces three further times, and on the last the irritated tutor, unable to rise to the occasion, tells him "stop it or I'll call your father!" Mr Norrell shocked himself by not being too scandalised to smile at this. 

This time, he was not quite in such a state that he couldn't adjust his clothing, so he unfastened his breeches and small-clothes and pushed them out of the way. He licked his hand and applied it to his eager member. 

It was oddly-difficult to concentrate on both the story and what he was doing. Apparently his body had been wanting a more-satisfactory go at this and just wanted to indulge in the pleasure, which was considerable. His mind did not seem to want to think of the boy in his bed (or indeed magically transported to his library), essentially because he did not really _want_ a boy. 

After letting his mind idle around the thought, he decided he did not want to _have_ the boy but to _be_ him. On closing his eyes again, the matter was simplicity itself. He imagined himself, as he had looked when he was still young enough to require a tutor. Then he imagined (in some detail) a louche knowing rogue who realised his innocence and wanted to ravish it anyway, to look at him and lay hot, coarse hands on him, even to realize how much he'd missed and determine to make up for _all of it at once_ that very night, and suddenly he was shuddering in his own grip, grunting and squeezing and squeezing and _coming_ ... “Ah!" ... and one last lovely voluptuous stroke because he felt so good as he pulsed heavily in his own hand. Good, and absolutely shattered. D--n, he'd gone all over the place, chair and clothes included, but he felt so glorious he didn't care. 

He slept for an hour, and was woken up by Childermass tapping gently at the door to remind him of dinner. The mess he'd made of himself was dried on, but at first he could only grin tiredly to himself and decide it was worth it, because nothing except magic had ever felt quite that good for him before. Then he sighed, and adjusted his cleaning-up spell for current parameters. Then he tidied it away by putting a spell on it to make it not invisible but inconspicuous. When he was clean he went to dinner, glad he could now put the whole thing out of his mind.


	2. The Lustful Turk and the Centaur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr Norrell is drawn back to examine the contents of the Scrapbook twice, once pleasuring himself to a tale of a Lustful Turk and next discovering a drawing of a man who looks like himself embracing a centaur who looks remarkably like Childermass. He also obtains a drawing of Childermass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The description of the drawing of Mr Norrell and the Childermass Centaur comes from a lovely (and hot!) illustration for Predatrix's earlier fic, "A Horse Is Human," drawn to perfection by Wandarer and posted here on AO3 under the title "Mr Norrell's Unexpected Fantasies" (https://archiveofourown.org/works/6155350).

_November 1804_

Over the next week, he worked happily on his project, getting the designs for the carvings and the inlaid metal strips right in some detail, and sending them to the appropriate people for the woodwork and metalwork. While he awaited the final results, he made his final choice of which spells would be most useful if he fell foul of a Fairy. Such a creature would not be able to be aware of those dangerous spells if he kept them in a box inimical to Fairies. He wrote them out in his neatest and smallest hand, on very thin paper, and folded them to fit in the box.

While waiting for the box itself to be finished, he was surprised when the Dreadful Scrapbook crossed his mind. Hadn't he dealt with that? He sighed, and made a few preparations. He placed a jug of warm water and a soft cloth in easy reach, and even provided himself with a jar of salve to make his stroking hand feel that much more delicious on his prick, but on past form he would probably completely forget to use it because he was enjoying himself so much. Then he brought the book before the fire where he liked to sit, and locked the door. He removed every stitch he was wearing (with some difficulty as he was not accustomed to dealing with his clothes unassisted), and sat by the fire. 

The Dreadful Scrapbook had something a little more disturbing for him today. It was noted as "The famous tale of the Lustful Turk", and Bates had added a line "I wonder if they really are bigger, and more animal, than Englishmen?" 

A sinister figure in shadowy robes, the Dey of Algiers was not a reassuring figure. The thought of the fear the virginal heroine must have felt or even the discomfort she must have suffered in travelling so far was uncomfortable. But as soon as the Turk bared his "terrifying instrument", his "pillar of ivory," Mr Norrell began to feel a certain warmth. Suddenly he imagined it was his own trembling person beneath that fierce gaze. The Turk might remark unkindly upon Mr Norrell's unlikeness to his desired prey but decide that his lusts must be slaked upon _someone_ and drag Mr Norrell onto whatever furniture one had in foreign parts (surely not a desk, possibly a chaise-longue ... no, he had it, an ottoman) to despoil him. Since he, a man, did not have a womanly sheath for the purpose, the Turk would have to use what came to hand, so to speak. 

Mr Norrell rubbed restlessly at his bottom and pushed a fingertip in. It was most uncomfortable, and he had not the faintest clue why any person would do such a thing. Since it was disturbing his fantasy, which appeared to follow the book in suggesting the Turk would demand to shove that impressive instrument _somewhere,_ he picked up the jar of salve. He bent over on the floor where he could reach properly, and discovered that it made a considerable difference. After a little while, his finger was going right in and he wanted more. It didn't take him too long to get to three fingers (embarrassed as he felt that he was developing frankly sluttish instincts), and he was making some rather loud gasps as he imagined that lovely thick prick ploughing him until he screamed. There was a little rough spot in there that felt so good as he went in, and the tension between slowly feeling for that pleasure and just fucking himself rigid drove him wild. He wanted fast-and-hard and slow-and-thorough. He imagined the Turk resting against him a moment, breathing hard and sweating, and then fucking him again.

He spent hard, making noises, thinking about having a man and how if it felt better than this he might faint. It was only at this point that he realised he'd made a mess on the carpet, and also that he hadn't even touched his own prick and he hadn't thought that was _possible ..._

He wiped the carpet, pushed his clothes under the chair, and crawled into the chair with the last of his strength to sleep.

The next day passed without a thought of the Dreadful Scrapbook crossing his mind. As he prepared for bed that evening he remembered it, but without any desire to further explore its contents. Perhaps the slightly-frightening image of the Lustful Turk had been enough to put him off? He went to sleep that night assuming that he had exhausted its interest for him.

It came as a surprise, then, that after a few days he wanted more. Just to see if he could find something more appealing. He flipped past a few pictures that were not what he wanted, and then he found something _exactly_ to his taste. Very nice indeed. Not explicit, more sort-of ... "implicit". A nicely-drawn picture of a fully-dressed gentleman looking not unlike himself with his arms round a centaur. The centaur looked rather untidy, slightly wild, with very long hair. In fact, he looked distinctly like Childermass. The centaur's man-body was obscured by the gentleman, but the more Mr Norrell looked, the more convinced he was that the man's coat was the only stitch he was wearing, and that the gentleman was pressing his face eagerly against the naked man's crotch of Childermass—that is, the centaur. So that the centaur's human prick, though not portrayed by the artist, was resting hard and demanding against Mr Norrell's own cheek.

He moaned, and reached for himself. The creature would let him--there it was in the picture!--and maybe his own lips would slip open just a fraction, and he could _taste_ it, so salty and wild. Maybe the Childermass-centaur would smile down at him in his eagerness. He couldn't think of anything but his fevered imaginings of that organ almost wearing a hole in his hot cheek. Then, without speaking, the centaur pushed the Norrell-figure back and began to frig himself. Norrell couldn't think of anything but watching that generous endowment slide, red and hard in that big hand, and hearing the panting and the wet noises as it moved. He was dimly aware of his own prick in his own hand, but he still kept watching. He tried to make it last, but he helplessly brought himself off to the image of Childermass' seed gushing all over him. Feeling defiled and warm and _seen_ for the last few seconds of it, with the Childermass-centaur looking right into him.

He was rather glad Childermass was out on a journey. He didn't feel quite like facing him. 

A couple of days later, Childermass returned, and, as he often did, sat at dinner telling Mr Norrell the news of his travels. He'd shared a meal with a penniless-but-amusing artist and card-sharp. 

"I hope you haven't been losing your wages at the table, Childermass," said Mr Norrell rather censoriously. 

"Captain Sharp's a shepherd of the gentry, sir. Only fleeces your class! Besides, he was well in his cups and lost a game to me."

"And what did you win from a man without a feather to fly with?" Mr Norrell was amused. He had faith in Childermass' ability to gain _something_ from the situation.

"I got him to draw out fresh some of my Cards of Marseilles," said Childermass, and produced a less-grubby bundle of cards with proper backing. "The embarrassing thing is that he insisted on playing a second game and he'd run out of anything to set as stakes. He couldn't draw from memory or imagination..."

"A bit of a lack in an artist," said Mr Norrell, although he wondered uneasily, for a moment, whether his own reliance on books was just such a deficiency in a practical magician.

"I got him to draw me, in the end, so if you've ever wondered what I look like when I'm out on my travels, I've brought a picture home." His tone shared the joke that it was an object of little utility.

After dinner, Childermass and Mr Norrell sat in the library and had a drink together. Mr Norrell admired the portrait of Childermass. He looked rather wild and excitingly indifferent to normal rules. Mr Norrell was accustomed to thinking of that as a by-product of the way he kept his hair, but the artist (whatever his limitations) had been good enough to bring out those aspects of his character, even sketching quickly in charcoal. Childermass' dark eyes also showed to excellent effect. With his sleeves rolled back to provide evidence that he'd got nothing up his sleeve, his arms and hands were a fine example of developed musculature. _Dear me,_ thought Mr Norrell, _sometimes I thought he'd look rather well if thoroughly scrubbed-up, but it turns out he needs no assistance in looking memorable._ A certain wicked idea crossed his mind.

"It'd be quite good if he hadn't smudged it," said Childermass, slightly regretfully, so Mr Norrell looked up art-spells, not something that came readily to his mind. He chanted the first, and blew on it left-to-right, and the dust obediently hurried out of the smudges, and took to the lines. Then he did the next, and blew on it right-to-left, which had no visible effect.

"What did that one do?" asked Childermass, sounding interested.

"Fixes it," said Mr Norrell absently. "I think that'll hold now."

Childermass tested it with his fingertip. "Right."

"Do you want to keep it, Childermass?" Mr Norrell asked.

"Not that bothered either way." Childermass grinned. "I know what my face looks like already," he added. 

So Mr Norrell kept the picture. He spent a while deciding that it didn't really go with the imposing pictures he already had on the walls. But the wicked idea of where to put it he'd had earlier kept coming back to him. Would Childermass mind? He had no idea. Was it somehow unfair? He didn't know that, either. Was he going to do it? Of course! He'd been set on it since he'd realized it was the right size.

By that evening, it was glued very carefully inside the Dreadful Scrapbook, one page on from his previous favourite the centaur, and if the bookmark went to that spread of pages more frequently than any other, well, he had no intention at all of letting Childermass know of this development. Which must make it all right ... mustn't it?

He didn't let the usual few days elapse before turning to the Dreadful Scrapbook, but went to it that evening. He wondered if it would work. Images and words _about,_ or designed _for,_ pleasure, seemed to affect him in a very specific manner, which was no cause for wonder considering that was their purpose. But would he get the same effect from something different?

Only experimentation would tell. He fetched the warm water and picked up his supplies (the salve and soft cloth were now in a little box in the library for ease of access, made hard to notice). Then he locked the door and removed his clothes (he was getting quite practiced by now; maybe he'd been doing this too much?). With a wave of his hand the book restored itself to visibility. 

It seemed even better (worse?) to settle in his chair with the image of Childermass before him, because here was a man already appealing to his tastes, seeming to look back at him, and he could fill in the man's voice and the things he would be likely to say.

"You would like me to _what,_ sir?" Evidently the one in his head was just as disobliging as the real one, and had just the same way of canting his eyebrow to point up the absurdity of a request.

"I should like you to attend me and please me." His blood was racing now, partly at his own audacity. He felt slightly embarrassed that his prick was not merely filling but standing to, not only firm but ready. 

"And shall my duties as a whore be paid in addition to my duties as a man of business, sir?" 

"Childermass!"

Childermass' voice had sounded the way it usually did, and Mr Norrell could not figure out whether to make it outraged, or any thing else. Would that mean "How dare you!" or "Set me at my proper value, and I'll know if you get it wrong"? 

Childermass was generally cynical but hard to shock. He had, he would easily admit, a low opinion of many people. Mr Norrell was glad he had only realized he was no exception to that after about five years. Childermass was worth the trouble even if he didn't look up to his employer. If he had held out for someone who would treat him with overt respect, he doubted he would have found someone half as good. 

Turning his attention to the picture (on the page and in his mind), Mr Norrell's image of himself said, "Would you do such a thing, then? As a whore?" A transaction would be simple. It would be worth very nearly any price Childermass might take it into his mind to ask.

Childermass shook his shaggy head.

Mr Norrell sighed, and turned the page. He used a piece of cunningly-fashioned wood to clip the centaur page to this fresh image and keep Childermass' image inviolable. 

But it left him, he had to admit, at his neediest and most distracted. He would have to have recourse to the pages already designed for such a purpose.

The first new page he turned to had a piece from _Fanny Hill._ Not that he knew that work, but Bates had found it a little frustrating. As well as glossing title and author, he had scrawled, "Cunt, cunt, cunt, on every page! Eighty pages to get to a decent-sized prick." Mr Norrell read the description of what sounded like a positively _indecent_ -sized one, and sighed happily. The buttons popped as if unequal to the task of containing it, and "out IT started" (momentarily Mr Norrell wondered if Childermass' instrument might be large enough to be accorded the dignity of capital letters). A "Maypole" apparently proportional to a young giant appeared. Not a whit disturbed by the difference between his own moderate endowment and the thing on the page, Mr Norrell started to stroke himself happily. He had no desire for something the size of that attached to his own person--it would be dragging him all over the place with its impetuous demands--but he wouldn't mind a good look (or a good feel) at such a thing. Then the prose started to wax poetic about the "animated ivory", the "proud stiffness", even the colour of the veins, and the size and beauty of it distracted him from his previous rather intrusive thoughts of Childermass for long enough for him to rub himself to a good hard spend.

To his annoyance, despite being virtuous and not using the Childermass-pictures, and despite having indulged earlier, that night he had a dream involving Childermass and the centaur _with each other,_ cavorting secretly between the pages. It left him gasping and in need of clean sheets.


	3. The result of the imbibing of port

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on information in the Dreadful Scrapbook, Mr Norrell purchases an Instrument to aid him in his private pleasure. 
> 
> One evening, he gives a dinner-party which includes the Duke of Devonshire as a guest. When Childermass makes a remark, the Duke is indignant, and Mr Norrell, under the influence of port, defends his "servant." After dinner, Childermass and Mr Norrell imbibe more port, and Mr Norrell has a bath. Afterward he finds Childermass examining his box of private items, including the Instrument and the Dreadful Scrapbook. The two become lovers.

_January 1805_

Mr Norrell decided he didn't really care about people (which was just as well really; he wasn't particularly good at them), but he'd always assumed he would do without pleasure, as well, and this surprising fascination seemed to be remarkably consistent. Every few days he would feel drawn back to the Dreadful Scrapbook, and he would read, or look at pictures, and when he was excited enough he would lie naked in the chair, indulging himself, with his eyes closed and visions or stories in his mind. It seemed to have eased a certain amount of his usual tension, which he only noticed when Childermass said he hadn't been called to chase something out of the library for at least a fortnight. If a mouse _did_ pop out of the walls he would probably still be hysterical with nerves, but he spent rather less time imagining he could hear them, and calling for defense against the mice that every one else insisted were phantoms. 

The next day his new box arrived, and he tucked his set of protective spells neatly inside it, patting it fondly once his preparations were complete. He devoutly hoped he'd never have to have dealings with a Fairy, and he had put the appropriate books on a high shelf to discourage impulsively reaching for them, but magicians had been known to run into the accursed creatures in the woods and fields of England. He had a spell to clarify the hearing and the mind so that they could not twist meanings against him. He also had a spell to seal his library against Fairy forces. And a spell to stop them working on his own nature—he was well-sealed against cupidity by accident of birth, he had never known want; but there must be other habits and quirks which a Fairy could play on. He did, he supposed, have a tendency to nerves and should watch out for it playing on his fears. He placed the box tidily at the back of a drawer in his desk (and unfortunately forgot about it at a later time in his life when it would have proved most useful). 

He started to ask Childermass some rather odd questions. He had nobody else to ask, after all, and Childermass would probably take it to be some matter of magic that was engaging his attention. Was it possible for a previously sober-minded person to develop an addiction to intimate matters? Childermass looked at him seriously and said, "It's not a question that never occurred to me before, sir, but I don't generally consider an interest in such things to be a problem." He liked the expression on Childermass' face when he was thinking something over carefully. He knew what Childermass looked like when he was being sarcastic, after all these years, and it was more often than not (which was most unfair, he was a very understanding employer). He also asked how people arranged personal attachments. This made Childermass grin, and say, "I doubt most people think it out that way, sir."

How strange! One did not sit down to dinner, or cast a spell, or do any other thing, without deciding to do so. He enjoyed watching Childermass: the dark eyes; the strong hands; the way he mounted and rode a horse, or loped easily through a room, or even the way he rested easily against a wall as if he had every right to make himself comfortable wherever he pleased. He had narrowly inspected Childermass as one might someone who was going to go near his books, and been pleased to note that despite an indefinable sense of ... griminess, Childermass appeared to be personally cleanly in his habits. 

Finding Childermass appealing was merely an obvious aesthetic decision. It was sheer common-sense that he did so. And he had considerable trust, and, he supposed, _liking_ for Childermass. Why would not any one make their personal decisions that way? How could any one _want_ someone at variance to their will and opinions? Maybe it was true what he'd read, people could just look across the room and feel that way. He shuddered at the very thought of making himself intimately vulnerable to a casual acquaintance. 

"All these questions," said Childermass, slanting a grin at him. "If you're thinking about marriage at your age, sir, I do hope you'll keep your household well-advised."

"I can think of nothing I would like less, Childermass." Norrell frowned back. He wished he could marry Childermass: it would simplify things unutterably. His household were accustomed to the respect he showed Childermass, but whenever he went into wider society he was always puzzled to find that people seemed to think Childermass' presence or the interest he himself showed in Childermass' opinions needed some sort of explanation.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

The next morning he went out in the garden, the weather being acceptable, and introduced himself to the bees, remembering to be quite apologetic about not having done so earlier. He stated that he was a magician with a small household, and then got on to the important business of the garden. As a magician, he was able to communicate with the useful insects in a more precise way than most. He told them where he had seen good growth of their preferred wild-flowers, and in return they told him what flowers would make for the best honey, and he resolved to plant some. The hives seemed to be buzzing a more restful note when he left, as if the bees sounded happier and more productive. 

That evening, he looked at the end-papers of the Dreadful Scrapbook, and discovered a reference to a mysterious device. Apparently, "Bates" had acquired it from a particular shop, and it had added appreciably to the sensations he had enjoyed. The Latin was no barrier to him, but what was "the Instrument", and how should it be employed? How should a physical instrument affect the use of these works? Bates was somewhat cagey about describing it, which was worrying considering he had not blushed overmuch at compiling a sodomite's manual. 

He determined to visit the shop the next time Childermass was away. The servants did not ask questions about his comings and goings (he sniggered momentarily, thinking there had been altogether too many "comings" in the library lately--the Dreadful Scrapbook was encouraging a regrettably-coarse streak in his nature he might otherwise have been completely unaware of). The other servants might not, but Childermass probably would. Norrell had already intercepted a few sharp glances of the "I wonder what you're up to now, sir?" variety, and although he had dealt with them as usual by pretending not to notice, he guessed Childermass would be curious. 

After working on another vessel of containment, this time for tricky ingredients, he got his nose out of the work for long enough to visit the shop in question. It specialised in antiquities and rarities from distant lands.

After narrowly inspecting the Latin description of the Instrument, he thought he'd found it. The description that it had come back on the market after an estate sale made him sure of it. It was "believed to be" some form of African fertility ... thing. It was, he was relieved to see, not too indiscreet in design (by which he meant it did not look _too_ much like the male member), but it was smoothly-carved out of wood, with a wide handle, and appealing to the touch. He had it discreetly-wrapped and took it with him. 

He spent the afternoon looking it up in a very wicked book of magic indeed. Fertility idols could have unexpected effects on magicians, even though magicians were male. Pregnancy was not unheard of, and could be disastrous, although some practitioners had managed without loss of life. He carefully made sure the thing was inert, not-active, merely a toy. He made sure the wood was cleanly-sealed and would not attract unpleasant influences or miasmas to cause sickness. Then he set it in his storage box for private items, with a spell to make sure it wasn't too noticeable.

In the evenings, he took to using the Instrument whenever he felt the urge. It seemed to be easier and more thorough than using his fingers, especially since there was a place on it that, angled just right, hit that little spot inside him that so appreciated the pleasure. He was sure it was a better approximation to having a man than his fingers had been, and the handle was well-designed for him to move it. 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The next thing that happened went around the whole neighbourhood, which in Mr Norrell's opinion only showed how dull most non-magicians' lives must be. It was time for one of his rare attempts at entertaining, and the Duke of Devonshire was in the area. The Duke, and a couple of attentive mothers trying to marry off their daughters to either Mr Norrell (for his wealth) or the Duke (for his position), plus the usual hangers-on in search of entertainment or dinner, and the table was much too full. 

Childermass had made him do it: if he held this one dinner people would want to come to, and invited the mothers as well so they could argue for the precedence of their own little darlings, he could have performed his useful minimum for the rest of the year. As for the hangers-on, of course, they invited themselves. 

He had recourse to a glass too much of an unusually-strong port, and the conversation turned to politics. Mr Norrell made it clear that who, if any one, ran the country was of indifference to him, so long as they left his books alone. The Duke asked him if he was "a damned traitor, Sir!" and asked him if he would prefer if the country was run by the French. 

"I am equally indifferent to that, sir," answered Mr Norrell mildly, "save that they would probably show even less interest in my books than English politicians, since they could not read them readily. That could only prove a benefit from my point of view."

"And what about Radicals, and Northerners?"

"I would be classed as a Northern man myself, perhaps, by Londoners," said Mr Norrell. 

"Aye, and what about us?" said Childermass from his position leaning on the dining-room wall. He was, as usual, not positioned as a servant waiting to help, nor as a member of the gentry sitting at table. 

"Do you allow your servants to join in the conversation with their betters?" said the Duke of Devonshire angrily. 

"Childermass is my man of business," said Mr Norrell. "I rely on him to keep me informed of many things in the world at large. I daresay he knows more than you do about conditions in Yorkshire having lived here all his life than you do having visited for a day."

The Duke opened and shut his mouth for a moment. After that, unfortunately, he thought of a good deal to say, but Mr Norrell and Childermass held up their end of the argument. The party broke up soon after that, with the attentive ladies wanting to keep their daughters out of range of such dangerous opinions, and the Duke being annoyed. Only one of the particularly brass-faced and starving hangers-on stayed long enough to pocket a fair amount of the food. Mr Norrell noticed that Childermass helped him with that, even giving him a hanky to wrap the greasier things. 

Mr Norrell sat with Childermass for a while, drinking some more of the port and chatting. It was fortunate that neither of them were much affected by drink, and they could both manage a perfectly-sober conversation after three (Mr Norrell) or four (Childermass) glasses of strong port. Childermass said he appreciated Mr Norrell's support, and Mr Norrell smiled modestly and admitted that since he was well-off enough to have nothing to fear from the disagreement of powerful people, and he had no need to marry, he could speak as he pleased.

Then Mr Norrell went to take his bath. After that he would sit in the library and read for a while, then go to bed. 

Mr Norrell was completely unprepared to come into the library and see Childermass sitting in his chair quite as if he belonged there. 

Childermass picked up the box and took its contents out one by one, inspected them, then carefully put them back. 

It was much more disturbing to find the Dreadful Scrapbook open beside him on the table, just as it was when Mr Norrell was using it. 

"Why are you touching my things, Childermass?" he said crossly. 

"I was interested," said Childermass, quite as though he had a right to be.

"I put a spell on my private items to make them unnoticeable," he went on indignantly. 

Childermass looked back. "You'd taught me shadow-craft so I know the knack of "unnoticeable" myself. Of course when I see the trick used on some casual reading you have I'd be curious." 

"I didn't mean you to spy on me! Or read my private books," said Mr Norrell. 

Childermass looked back at him, quite at ease. "So when I nearly left after a couple of years, and you were trying to encourage me to come back, and you told me I was perfectly free to read any of your books except the books of magic in my spare time, you didn't actually mean that?"

Mr Norrell thought it had been a good deal easier to offer that as an incentive when he had only one small shelf of rather dull books. He looked down and muttered something indistinctly. He _had_ meant it, at the time, but that had been when all his library was so thoroughly devoted to magic that he could not imagine any of his few non-magic books being embarrassing or indeed of interest in any way to a casual reader. 

"Although this one is the most interesting one," Childermass went on. "I wouldn't have guessed you liked this sort of thing."

Mr Norrell quickly glanced at him. Childermass, lying back totally at his ease in the chair, seemed to be enjoying it himself. This was very distracting. Childermass seemed to be built on large and impressive lines, just as he'd occasionally imagined. It was really most vexing to be reminded of it when Childermass was going to take himself away and not be obliging. 

"My Latin's not good enough for this bit," said Childermass, so Mr Norrell sighed and read him the story from Petronius in a rather free translation he made up as he went along. Childermass found it very funny. 

"I'd never have thought of you with a young boy, though, sir," Childermass said frankly.

Mr Norrell glared, and said he hoped Childermass hadn't thought of him having a criminal connection with any one at all (although in his most secret heart he could not get rid of the idea of Childermass having one with _him ..._ )

Childermass snorted. "Too dignified, are you?" He glanced at the book, and the box beside it, as if to say, _well, you've been having a bit of fun in here, anyway._

Mr Norrell sighed, and admitted he'd found the book surprisingly engaging. "I had not expected to, and I've never seen a book like that before, but I found it appealed to me." 

"What sort of man's your type, then?" 

Mr Norrell was terrible at people, strange new habits or not, but he rather thought Childermass' voice held friendly interest rather than condemnation. 

"Tall, muscular, not delicate," he said. "Somewhat ... masculine," he admitted. 

"Ah? I'd be worrying for my virtue round about now, sir," Childermass went on. "If I had any."

Mr Norrell gulped. It was only at this point that he figured out that both of them must be rather drunk. He couldn't help noticing that neither of them looked _too_ drunk to respond to the situation. 

"Are you flirting with me, Childermass?"

"I doubt as I could ever do such a thing, sir, being as how you'd hardly notice and you're much too respectable. I'll have to go up to my own bed and think about it." Childermass spread his legs slightly and lazily stroked up one inner thigh. 

Mr Norrell stared at his hand as it moved provocatively and said, "Oh, curse you, now you've got _me_ thinking about you thinking about it!" 

"I can see that, sir." Childermass sounded modest and respectful as well as aroused. It was most unfair that he could manage to unite such disparate states. 

Mr Norrell blushed, and looked down. A thought occurred to him "You haven't been using the library when...when I was having private moments, have you?"

"I wouldn't have dared, sir. It's one thing being a bit drunk and taking advantage of a previous invitation to look at your not-magic books. I know you wouldn't have taught me a concealment spell you couldn't see through yourself, and I wouldn't have done it." He sighed. "If we're being honest, though, I wager I'd have liked watching you do yourself, getting all hot and eager."

"Childermass!"

"And now I've seen what you did with my picture."

"Ah. I thought you might not approve. That’s why I clipped it shut so I would not be ... tempted," Mr Norrell admitted. 

"But how did you find one of a centaur that was me?"

"That was there when I got the book," said Mr Norrell. "Again, I thought to myself, 'Maybe Childermass would not quite like to be used that way,' and because I could not be sure, I clipped them shut so I would not use them in any way you might not approve of. But maybe I would not have been so interested if it had not reminded me of you."

"What would you have done if I'd shown an interest?" said Childermass.

Mr Norrell thought. He was drunk, he trusted Childermass; he would never be in a better position to explore his particular tastes. 

He said, "Did you read the clipping from _Fanny Hill?_ That unrealistically-large ... thing?"

"Yes, I saw that bit. I thought he'd fall over if he was built that way."

"I thought I wouldn't like to be like that myself, but I wouldn't mind seeing it, or feeling it." He licked his lips. "And I wondered if yours was big enough to be in capital letters, and if it'd rear out like that when you undid your breeches." He sat down in the other chair, irritated that he wasn't near enough the fire for his own comfort. 

"Oh aye? Well, far be it from me to discourage your curiosity, sir," said Childermass, and undid himself. It did rather spring out, suggesting it had been under pressure. It wasn't really maypole-sized, which was just as well, but it was certainly a good enough size.

"Oh, _definitely_ capital letters," Mr Norrell declared with a delighted smile. His hand was twitching with the desire to touch.

"But you have the advantage of me, sir," said Childermass. "Here I am feeling all self-conscious." He looked not in the least self-conscious, spreading his thighs a little more as if to invite attention. 

"Ah. Well, we can't have that," said Mr Norrell. He was not sure how far Childermass would take this, but _he_ was getting uncomfortable in his clothing by now. He undid himself quickly and pushed his clothes out of the way. "As you see, I haven't much to be proud of, but here I am."

"Mmm. Nothing to be ashamed of, sir. Come and give us a cuddle, then. You must be freezing over there." Childermass, apparently to make sure he was at his full extent, gave his own prick a good squeeze and let go again.

Mr Norrell gulped. He walked across and awkwardly tried to lower himself onto Childermass, who pulled him into place so that their pricks were resting against each other. 

"That's better," said Childermass. "How long have you been wanting this, then?"

"I'm not sure," said Mr Norrell, moaning slightly as Childermass squeezed his arse and used that to push them together harder. He didn't happen to have considered this particular act before, but he was having difficulty recalling why not because it was obviously even more delectable than the things he _had_ thought about. Or maybe that was just because this was Childermass his real self, with his real (and enormous) prick, under him and willing. He closed his eyes to concentrate on the sensations. They were sweating where bare flesh was pressed to flesh, and he could smell that masculine odour of smoke and horse overlaid on clean man, and both of them were so _hard_ against each other...

Childermass slid them together again so that the very tip of Mr Norrell's own prick, being shorter, nudged at that interesting groove in Childermass', and Childermass moaned. 

"Might I ... kiss you? You don't have to because I am your employer," Mr Norrell added hastily. "I am sensible of the fact that it is another level of intimacy. I would not wish to presume."

"You need not worry about that. Just kiss me while I'm still in the mood!" said Childermass, so Mr Norrell did. Kissing was much more interesting than he had thought. Not only damp, but that satiny-smooth flexible texture, and the tongue-thrusting which went straight to his prick so he couldn't help moving in turn, and Childermass seemed to have acquired a habit of nibbling his lips between bouts of tongue-play, which...really was not unpleasant at all. He did his best to learn from the experience, and dug his fingers into Childermass' hair, at first to keep his head still and then because he enjoyed it so much. 

Between kisses, Childermass rumbled, "Hardly seems fair you've got so little hair to play with."

Mr Norrell carefully eased his hands through the tangles, and enjoyed the resultant texture. "Mm. Well, if I'd known I was going to develop a taste for this at my advanced age, I'd have tried to grow it out for you."

"Advanced age, sir? You're only thirty-nine."

Mr Norrell was of the opinion that he'd looked vaguely somewhere between forty and fifty for some time, and intended to go on looking it for the rest of his life, as it was a good sensible age for a scholar. He knew Childermass was thirty-four and thus not all that much younger than he, but he looked like a mature, not an elderly man. Quite an attractive mature man. He just went on with the kissing. He was a bit doubtful about thinking up any other moves, and he rather hoped it would bring them both off comfortably without his having to admit to not knowing what he was doing. 

Childermass lifted him up and smiled at him, surprisingly sweetly. "I think you've mastered the art of kissing," he said. "What else d'you fancy trying?"

Mr Norrell sighed. "I'm not sure. I thought about you ... doing it to me," he said carefully, sure he was blushing. 

"But you don't want to stop and try any thing tricky?" Childermass pulled them both close together again. 

"It's an exciting thought, but...not right now. I don't want to move," Mr Norrell admitted.

To his shock, the next thing he felt was Childermass' hands tugging gently at his backside. 

"I did say no." And he did feel absolutely clear that Childermass would neither hurt him nor go against his wishes. 

"Don't worry," said Childermass. "Just wondered if you'd like a little bit of teasing. Just here," he added unnecessarily as he rubbed his fingertips around the sensitive hole without _quite_ going in. 

Mr Norrell could manage nothing more coherent than, "Mm!" because he did _indeed_ like it. 

Childermass then tried moving the stimulation. He fingered that sensitive spot between arse and balls (Mr Norrell did not know what one called that place, and in fact had not realised there was a place there, but it was certainly making him happy now). He also stroked Mr Norrell's inner thighs.

Then he went back to his arse, and rubbed there again with one hand, while the other went in front and gripped their pricks hard together. Mr Norrell spent helplessly in a rush of furious embarrassed heat, so meltingly infuriatingly delicious that the only thing he could manage to say was "nnngh!" Surely he was a civilised man, not so much at the mercy of his urges? But then he felt Childermass give way to his own urges, quite vigorously. He couldn't help thinking that untidy as it had been, he was going to have some interesting dreams about it. 

Childermass looked up at him. "All right, then?" and Mr Norrell realised it was indeed all right. Childermass would not look at him any differently, would not take advantage of any change in their relative position, would not presume, or even say more than that. To Childermass, they'd both made each other feel very good, and that was the end of it. 

"I might want to do it again," said Mr Norrell. 

"What, _now?_ said Childermass. 

"No, of course not now, obviously!" said Mr Norrell. "But when I was first using the Dreadful Scrapbook, I might think to myself that the urge had worn off by now and I should set it aside, but then a few nights later I'd want some more."

Childermass grinned crookedly at him. "I'm sure if you fancy another go, or a suck or a fuck for a change ... I'm sorry, what was that?"

"Nothing," said Mr Norrell, who had only gasped slightly as his prick twitched uncomfortably at the thought, as if protesting to its owner that this was much, much too soon to start having interesting thoughts. 

"I'm sure if you get the urge I'll be able to accommodate your wishes, sir," said Childermass, wiping them both up with a damp cloth. 

"Will you like it if you are not drunk?" _Maybe I am too plain, not enough … that is, unskilled?_ thought Mr Norrell, as he restored his clothing to a state of tidiness. 

"Well, we weren’t all that drunk. Not after you took the time to bathe. It’s just that the drink gave us the courage to act on impulse," said Childermass. "If you mean, will I still find you attractive, well, I'd been thinking about this sort of thing occasionally since you started dropping hints. I liked the idea … very much."

Mr Norrell smiled at him. "I really didn’t know I had such tastes. If you had brought it up, I'd have been interested, but it turned out to be the book that made me aware that I wanted … this kind of thing."

“Well, then, you shall have it,” said Childermass lightly, giving him a quick kiss.


	4. Mr Childermass proves superior to The Dreadful Scrapbook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Childermass away, Mr Norrell once again has recourse to The Dreadful Scrapbook for stimulation, only to have Childermass return and provide greater pleasure. A month of frequent intimacy passes, and Childermass suggests that his master might wish to discuss magic with him and even teach him some.

_January 1805_

The next few days Childermass was out, so Mr Norrell was pleased to have his work. Prompted by what Childermass had told him, he started to devise a better concealment spell than the one he normally used and which he had taught Childermass. This was certainly not because he mistrusted Childermass. But if that spell could be so readily mastered and easily used by someone who was not a magician, it was not properly secure. He applied skills he had gained from the book on materials to do this. First he prepared spidersilk from cobweb, which was itself challenging because it involved keeping in one's mind both how fragile and how strong it was. Human hands were not made for such a delicate task. He made a physical component out of a large thin flat leaf, and used the spidersilk to tie it to the object. After the physical preparation, the difficult part was to make a "wrapper" of shadow. This took some time. He was fairly sure it was a much subtler form of concealment, though. The inclusion of shadows in the spell both he and Childermass could use could be seen relatively easily if one knew what one was looking for. This one required him to be careful to remember because _he_ couldn't see it. 

The next time he got his head out of his work and felt the urge for a distraction, he was disappointed to find that Childermass was still out. The book was not half as enjoyable, but it would have to serve for now. 

He found a clipping from a story about a nunnery. Obviously some people thought nuns and priests doing naughty things would be wickedly-exciting. Apparently it was a translation from the French, which did explain the fascination with the Catholic clergy. He'd much have preferred a monastery, the thought of a couple of brothers tumbled together and caught by the Abbot would be more to his taste, but since the hero of this particular romance was a boy dressed as a girl to infiltrate a nunnery, and since "Father Eustace", who visited to inflict penance on the women, was handsome, well-developed, and wearing absolutely nothing under his monkish robe, the tale required only a trifling adjustment to make it much more to his taste. Now, instead of a female novice, he imagined the boy pleasuring himself with a candle before being dragged up to be punished. In the story, the visible bulge betraying the boy's state under his frock was likened to a cucumber or a rolling-pin. Mr Norrell sighed: now he'd had Childermass, these really excessive similes rather threw him out of the story, because he was now aware that something of a ridiculous size would be uncomfortable to do much with (and even Childermass was large but not that size). 

Inadequate as the story was, he was sufficiently interested to do something about it, and he used his own thrusting fingers to mimic the candle, thinking he'd like something a bit thicker, and imagining the "Father Eustace" of the story ready to take over. 

He'd just replaced his fingers with the Instrument and was happily working away when the library door opened. Of course, it was Childermass--of course it could only be Childermass, because he did not require the other servants to attend him in the library, and they certainly knew better than to open the door there even if there were an emergency. His guarding-spells were certainly carefully designed to protect the library from fire, flood or theft, and he trusted them rather better than most of the servants to keep his books safe.

He stopped still, warily, wondering if Childermass would be shocked, or leave him to his enjoyment, or maybe go back to his work as though nothing were happening. He did not quite think he could bear being ignored. 

Instead, he heard the sound of Childermass coming in and locking the door behind him. He heard the sound of quick footsteps across the floor, then various rustling noises. He did not look round. But then Childermass reached for the Dreadful Scrapbook, and he knew Childermass was reading it, following the licentious tale that had been engaging his attention. 

Mr Norrell did not have long to think _What now?_ before Childermass withdrew the Instrument, and Mr Norrell moaned complainingly. Then he positioned them both in the chair, with Mr Norrell leaning over the padded arm and Childermass behind him with the Dreadful Scrapbook. He started to slide his own prick gently in, all the while speaking softly in Mr Norrell's ear, reading out the description of how brutally the priest was violating the girl with his "enormous machine". Instead of the girl, of course, the boy caught out in a nun's costume was the figure in Mr Norrell's mind's eye, skirts up to reveal his eager arse. After a few minutes Mr Norrell was trying to push back greedily to get as much of Childermass inside him as he could. Childermass said, "Not yet, you're not accustomed."

"I'd like to know how I'm expected to _get_ accustomed if you don't let me get started!" muttered Mr Norrell indignantly. He didn't really care if it hurt a bit; no doubt it wouldn't hurt next time. 

"There's a difference between tearing your behind and scratching it, as they say, sir," Childermass told him. "That little thing you've been playing with doesn't measure up to me. And you don't mysteriously learn how just because you insisted I batter ahead with it. You don't want me to call the doctor in because you've made yourself sore, do you?"  
"Don't mind being a bit sore," Mr Norrell muttered sulkily. 

"When I say 'sore', I mean having torn bits that need sewing-up," added Childermass mercilessly.

Mr Norrell did not have the grace to answer this, but stopped protesting. He dropped his head down and let Childermass direct events. Listening to Childermass reading the wicked story was quite diverting anyway, although he kept stopping for editorial comments, sometimes mocking, sometimes affectionately teasing.

"Oh look, the Father's going to administer his "holy oil", right up your bum. I think you're going to like that. Is it called ' holy' because it goes in your hole, d'you suppose?"

"You're not taking this seriously, are you?"

"Well, it _is_ a very silly story," said Childermass. "Shall we see if I can get you back in the mood?" Instead of reading, he moved, not so much thrusting as nudging. "Let me know when that hits the spot?"

Childermass, Mr Norrell thought with some relief, knew what he was doing.

"Like it when I rub it in you there ... or there ... or there?" Childermass paused at that last point because Mr Norrell gasped loudly. With that much of a clue, Childermass gripped him round the middle and kept working in him exactly where he was. 

"Get in you ... more thoroughly ... next time!" Childermass panted. The thought he'd managed to disturb Childermass' composure this much was somewhat stimulating. So was the relentless slow assault on his inner flesh. 

He had forgotten all about the nunnery as soon as Childermass hit the right spot inside him. It felt wonderful, so much better than either fingers or the Instrument, because it didn't have that prodding quality; the hardness had a sort of springiness to it. Childermass was rubbing it just right inside him...

"Touch me!" he demanded. 

Childermass was still panting. "You do yourself... I can't hold us up and...concentrate on this... _and_ touch you!"

Mr Norrell realised dimly that he was right. Unlike in the Dreadful Scrapbook, life had awkward positioning problems. He did not reply, just reached for himself. A couple of strokes was all it took, and he was nearly screaming with pleasure. Childermass sped up while taking care not to penetrate any deeper, and soon he was groaning as he came. 

After a brief pause to allow them both to catch their breath, Childermass said, “Could you reach that handkerchief and hand it to me. I’ll slip out soon, and I wasn’t that far in. I reckon my seed would spill out and leave a tell-tale spot on the carpet.”

Mr Norrell complied and tried to watch while Childermass withdrew carefully and wiped him, though he could not see very well. It was the first time any one had come inside him, and he liked the feeling of being wet back there. 

He felt distinctly sore, though he assured Childermass that it had been well worth it. He had to admit that Childermass had been right not to go in any further this first time. Childermass administered some of the salve to the swollen puckers around his entrance and helped him back into his clothes. 

They sat in the chair for a while, with Mr Norrell leaning against Childermass, who held him close.

“There now,” Childermass said at last. “I definitely liked that, and I am not in the slightest drunk.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

So things went. After a few weeks' vigorous exercise, Mr Norrell's arse was properly prepared to accept Childermass' prick whenever both of them were in the mood, and the rest of his body was more experienced, too. By this time, also, his erotic supplies had migrated from the library to the bedroom, and the servants knew that when the labyrinth was up on the way to the bedroom Mr Norrell was going to get himself up without requiring their assistance. Since the life of a servant was busy enough, and Mr Norrell was known for his whims and crotchets, this did not cause particular comment. Childermass said he'd mentioned that some of Mr Norrell's spells were time-sensitive, and he'd taken to being up at dawn. He'd also mentioned that Mr Norrell was never in enough of a good mood to cope well with company at that time in the morning. For some reason, nobody had thought to question this, despite Mr Norrell's excellent temperament (really, it _was_ excellent--as long as people did exactly what was required exactly when and how he desired it, he was the most amiable person imaginable). 

One evening they were in Mr Norrell's very favourite position, which was bent over the bed with Childermass pounding him vigorously from behind. They had acquired a sturdy bolster he could hold onto. 

He whined suddenly, because Childermass had stopped in the middle of it, in the middle of him.

"Do you know," said Childermass conversationally, "it's been a month since I first had you."

"Ah ... already?" said Mr Norrell, a little breathlessly. 

"Did you ever wonder if I'd ever be able to get it all in?"

"Not after the first week," Mr Norrell admitted. Once Childermass had made his point about not being too impetuous and rushing the pace, he'd seemed happy enough to provide practice, and both of them had enjoyed it. Thoroughly. 

"Well, since we've got comfortable with each other, sir," said Childermass, resuming with a gentler thrusting motion, "I've been thinking about your work."

"My _vocation,_ Childermass," Mr Norrell corrected irritably, adjusting his pose to encourage livelier action, which, to his annoyance, did not follow. 

"Well, you don't have any students, not like those Aureates. And you don't want to have to do with those street-magicians, because they're mucky and dishonest." Childermass stopped again, but kissed him gently on the back of the neck. 

"Your point being?" said Mr Norrell, not as out-of-breath as he'd intended to be by now and slightly cross about it. 

"You could always talk to me a bit more," said Childermass. "In case it's not obvious by now, I have no desire at all to exalt myself over you, whether by learning or any other thing. I don't want to be a magician in my own right, not now. But I'd like to know more about it. I'd like to _see_ you do magic, at least."

"I suppose I _might_ let you," said Mr Norrell ungraciously. It might be helpful to have Childermass to knock ideas about with, and he could not fault the man for excitement and delight in his favourite subject. "I'll consider the idea," he said, feeling very hard-done-by and not half as much hard-done- _to_ as he would have liked. 

"Thank you, sir," said Childermass, and gave him a piercingly-deep thrust. "Better?"

"Considerably," said Mr Norrell, closing his eyes to concentrate on the sensations. He grabbed the bolster again as Childermass began those more demanding strokes. It wasn't going to take long: Childermass had had the sense to put his case when Mr Norrell was most thoroughly involved, and he almost approved. 

After the gentle pause it nearly _hurt_ \--in the good way—and now Childermass had reached his hand in front, and was practicing manipulation in another fashion. Hand and prick were working together smoothly enough that when Mr Norrell went still, holding his breath for just a moment, his pleasure was utterly silent and effortless as it filled and overflowed him.

He wondered for a fraction of a second whether Childermass would notice, but of course Childermass knew him very well by now, carnally and otherwise. 

Childermass eased out, and said, "There you are. I think you were ready enough for that. You're not usually that quick."

"I'm not usually being tormented by you," muttered Mr Norrell as a matter of accuracy. 

"Oh? Didn't you like it?"

Mr Norrell opened one eye. "I suppose you're going to expect me to do something for you now," he said. 

"I'd enjoy it," said Childermass, "but I can wait if I've really worn you out."

Mr Norrell pulled him over on top of him, and began to kiss him in a leisurely fashion while playing with whatever he could reach, until Childermass clamped his legs together round one of Mr Norrell's and began to work himself away. Mr Norrell remembered the position for later: with Childermass' muscular legs it might feel very good for him. 

"Is that any good?" he asked. "I regret to think I don't have strong thighs the way you do."

Childermass managed to say hoarsely, "I don't think I care!" and went on moving, getting somewhat noisy by now. Evidently enough friction was produced, and he brought himself to a fine finish quickly enough. 

They exchanged languid kisses. 

++++++++++++++++++++++

The next day Mr Norrell taught Childermass Belasis' Scopus. While there were better (by which he meant more precise and accurate) ways of determining what magic was being done in the vicinity, it was easy to learn, easy to use, and required only the most basic of equipment. Childermass had some degree of sensitivity: he could tell something about the feel of Mr Norrell's magic, that it was subtle, and more comfortable using shadows, and rain, and whispering voices, than the showier habits of some of the Aureates, for example. 

Mr Norrell did not consider taking Childermass on as a pupil. There was the vexed question of whether Childermass was quite a servant in the same way as the other servants (a question he had never entirely succeeded in answering, even to his own satisfaction, since he took Childermass on). Besides that, the man already held altogether too much power over Mr Norrell's heart and body as his lover, and Mr Norrell was not entirely sure Childermass wouldn't ever take advantage of it. 

But Childermass seemed delighted to be taught some magic, and to see more. Mr Norrell found it unexpectedly touching to see how unguarded he was in his pleasure at the marvels of magic. Simple actions like the use of a silver bowl or the understanding of birds filled him with wonder. And the birds almost never had anything interesting to say--the bees were mental giants in comparison, at least when put together (he'd never heard a bee on its own have anything to say for itself). Birds, at least garden birds, were all MATE--FIGHT--NEST. He'd been very careful to avoid the corvids, though: he expected them to be bright, but he had very strong doubts about their loyalties.


	5. Mr Norrell moves to London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Childermass helps his master adjust to the distressing aspects of London life.

_Early Spring, 1807_

Mr Norrell did not like London. 

It was too noisy. The house was too small, and too fashionable. There weren't nearly enough books, that was the main problem. He had prepared for that: he had known pretty-much _all_ the books were in Hurtfew, and for some reason nobody was permitting him to take all of them. If he argued, most of the servants directed him to "talk to Mr Childermass, please, sir," and Childermass himself said there was not enough room. He had privately resolved to buy more bookshelves and smuggle them in later. It had been an unpleasant surprise that what Childermass had said was literally true: there wasn't enough room. Really, this house was most unpleasingly-built (by which he meant the walls were too short and too low to house his beloved book-collection). How could these London people manage in such mean houses? 

When he asked Childermass, he was told that they were sitting in what would locally be considered a mansion, and in order to move the Hurtfew library he would have to sell Hurtfew itself, with no certainty they would be able to rent or buy a comparable London house, nor that he might be able to purchase Hurtfew again when his London visit was over. Rather shocked that he appeared to have hit on something that might drain his previously-endless resources (and glad that he had Childermass to manage his accounts and save him from foolishness), he gave up the idea and resolved to manage with what books he had. 

The bookshelves were inadequate and distasteful, with none of the beautiful carvings that made his Hurtfew library such a joy to work in. There was almost no provision of care for his real rarities, and little workspace where he could set out Sutton-Grove readily to hand. 

He had been trying to prepare for problems with the books, but he had been completely unprepared for the other difficulties. 

It had not been possible to persuade all of the servants at Hurtfew to accompany him to London. To be sure, the servants, both old and new (apart from Childermass) treated him with as much respect as before, but it was so difficult to keep away from people! He was now frequently only one shut door away from servants pestering him with cups of tea or questions, and since it seemed foolish to demand an entire ban on these things, he couldn't work out how to diminish their frequency. 

Also, passersby and noise and the street were just outside the window. 

There was no calm empty view to rest his eyes upon while pausing in his work to think. There was no beck from which he could be certain to obtain clean fresh water for his scrying-bowl. Results from clean-looking London-water were surprisingly-varied, and often useless. He did not know where the nearest trees were, apart from the ones in the centre of Hanover-square, and they did not seem to want to listen to him because they were too stifled by being surrounded by streets instead of a field or forest. Even if they had wanted conversation, he would risk being run over by a carriage in crossing over to the ridiculously small park.

There were no bees. 

The pigeons sniggered at him, and he was sure he had seen a raven.

The London cook was impatient with his dietary requirements, or the frequency with which his nerves could distress him or make him struggle with the food he was given to eat. Really, no-one could be expected to enjoy duck! It was so tough, gamy and greasy he could not understand why people seemed to prefer it to good plain mutton, pork or chicken.

Eventually, Childermass took matters into his own hands. With a quiet word in the ears of various servants, he made it clear that Mr Norrell suffered dreadfully from nervous prostration, and that when this happened nothing would do but to let him take to his bed for several days, attended only by Childermass, who was familiar with the illness. 

The first time this happened, the excuse was not far from the truth. Childermass came home from a journey to find Mr Norrell in front of the fire, shaking, and frequently refusing to eat unless people offered him either gruel or small portions of something cut-up he could eat with a fork or spoon. Since the London-cook refused to make him food once he'd turned away good food too many times, he was a little thinner already.

Childermass dismissed the London-cook and called Hannah in while he discussed food with Mr Norrell. Hannah was (if not erotically) an exception to his nerves around femalekind, because she spoke in a low voice, did not look him in the eye, and wore modest dress with nary a frill nor furbelow in sight. Hannah said she was able to cook the simple dishes Mr Norrell preferred, and all he needed to do was make it known he had a tendency to indigestion. 

Mr Norrell felt so grateful he almost wept. He thanked her, and she left. 

"I've told her she can have an increase in her wages, sir, if she's doing some of the cooking as well."

"Of course, Childermass," said Mr Norrell feebly.

They sat there, with a good fire crackling, and plenty of weak sweet chocolate for Mr Norrell to sip, and after a while Mr Norrell relaxed. Hannah brought him a big bowl of gruel to eat, and although it wasn't necessarily a sensible choice for a meal after three days with not-quite-enough food, it was what he felt most comfortable with. Childermass fed him the first few spoonfuls, and then he rediscovered his appetite and ate the rest quite quickly. Nobody had bothered to put honey on his food for a few days, and it was delicious and gave him energy. 

He felt warmer, and Childermass sat there for a while stroking his hands. Then he ordered Mr Norrell gently to go to bed, and led him there, and dressed him in his night-clothes, and pulled the bed-clothes over him. The bed being large enough, he slept there too. 

It took about three days for Mr Norrell's normal degree of energy to return. This took plenty of sleep, and enough to eat, and finally Childermass took all of both of their clothes off and bathed him slowly all over, despite his sleepy protests about being filthy dirty and not fit to be seen and quite old enough to bathe himself. 

Childermass chuckled and said, “Talk about dirt when you've been the best part of two weeks on horseback, and the motion of the horse is grinding it in.” 

"But I've never seen you particularly dirty, Childermass," said Mr Norrell. "I was usually looking because I could not abide a dirty hand on the books, but you were always quite creditable."

Childermass lowered his head to whisper in his ear, "Let you into a little secret, sir." And he breathed hotly on Mr Norrell again. "I didn't always wash on t' road, nor did I always wash before laying hands on the books--though I always tried, did I have the opportunity--but when I came home, I had the sense to wash before handling either the books or you."

"Childermass!" A locked window banged indignantly open and then shut again, with a gust of wind. Mr Norrell, shaking with rage, waved a hand and was relieved when Childermass went to fasten the window closed. A breath of warm steam eased his chill. But he was still angry, if less cold than he had been a minute ago. When Childermass was beside him again he snapped, "How dare you lay irreverent hands on my books!"

Childermass laid particularly irreverent hands on something else. 

"Childermass ... Oh, d--n you, you know I cannot think when you do that!" Which sounded a lot more like a faint complaining squawk than Mr Norrell would be at all comfortable admitting. He couldn't think when Childermass did that. Particularly when he squeezed and rubbed and teased and ...

"I know, sir. That's why I do it." Which should have sounded smug and deplorable but sounded ... fond. The hands were still stroking at him, coaxing at him, sliding and fondling his bottom now. 

Mr Norrell leaned into him and breathed him in. Slightly dizzy in the warmth of the bathroom, he thought, _Just this once,_ because this was clearly not a thing people did in bathrooms. Bathrooms were for getting clean. He shut his eyes and the space inside his head went pink, and his hands reached out. He knew every inch of Childermass by now, and Childermass was wriggling away. 

"Let me take care of you," said Childermass. "You've been driving yourself into a fit of nerves, and you haven't had enough to eat. You need to be looked after until you're better."

"Want to ..." He wasn't that sure what he wanted, apart from _"now!"_ and _"more Childermass!"_ and to have his own handful to ...

"I know, sir," said the unflappable Childermass and bent to nibble his neck. "Now, you come up here and I'll dry us off."

He sighed and got out to roll on the towel. He felt slightly more aware of his surroundings when he was dry.

"You know what I've forgotten to do?" said Childermass. 

"No," said Mr Norrell. 

"We've done it a lot with me using my prick in you," said Childermass. "I’ve occasionally thought I'd do it with my tongue sometime, but I wondered if you would be too respectable for that. I suspect, though, that you would enjoy it. I’d like to try it now."

"Childermass!" he objected automatically. But the thought of a warm soft tongue working its way down, making him all wet and quivering, made him rather disinclined to get up. 

"Scandalised, but not _too_ scandalised," murmured Childermass. "I always like that." He worked his way down Mr Norrell's back with some oil. "You smell good enough to eat like that, you do," he said, giving him some licking all the way down. Then he opened him up a bit with his thumbs and licked very softly at his arse, all the way down, then all the way up again. 

Mr Norrell whined through this and then stealthily tried to reach for himself. 

Childermass withdrew his tongue from its task for long enough to say, "Not now, sir. I need you to concentrate properly on what I'm doing to start with."

Mr Norrell lay down again, trying to rock himself against the towel without much success. That tongue was getting him just right, just where he was most sensitive between his balls and his arse, just tiny little stabs with the point and then wide licks all over him. The wetness, and the consistent warm/soft/cool feel of being breathed on, made him feel more vulnerable. He stopped even trying to finish himself off; he just wanted to feel _like this,_ for ages, not to be distracted. 

Childermass stopped. "All right?"

Mr Norrell sighed complainingly. "It was. I just wanted you to keep doing it for _hours ..._ is that really so much to ask?"

"For one thing, my tongue can't hold out. For another, I wasn't even sure you were enjoying it."

"Oh, I was," admitted Mr Norrell. "I just didn't want to come off, because then we'd have to stop."

Childermass made him roll over. "Better start using my tongue elsewhere, then," he said. 

Mr Norrell felt a sharp jolt of distress. "That must be terribly insanitary," he said. 

"Ah?" said Childermass. He looked more closely. "All right, it does bother you, then."

"Only when I think about it. Sorry." When Childermass had just done it, without giving him time to think, he hadn't minded. But going from arse to prick without pausing seemed uncomfortable in some way. 

Childermass nodded. "On your hands and knees, sir," he commanded, and Mr Norrell turned over again. But instead of fucking him, he whispered, "I'll lick you till you melt, then, sir."

Mr Norrell understood dimly that Childermass would do it again. He moaned. 

"Now, sir," said Childermass before he started, "you must understand that it takes a lot of concentration and you have to be good and do some of the work." Since he was again drizzling warm oil down Mr Norrell's back, and further down, Mr Norrell had to ask him to repeat this. 

Instead of doing so, Childermass started to lick. It was absolute bliss, and it made his head spin and his prick jerk uselessly in thin air. 

Mr Norrell carefully thought back to the last thing Childermass had said (in the interest of not irritating him enough to stop), and started to use a hand on himself while asking Childermass to go on, go on and don't stop, lick him all over, lick him all over and let him ... 

Childermass rubbed him with a thumb on that outside place that was so peculiarly sensitive, while he kept licking, and Childermass was _letting_ him, so he _did_. He roared and squeezed and spent. 

"All right?" said Childermass. 

"So _very_ all right," he murmured, and fell down as slowly as he could manage. He was half-asleep on the towel. "Sorry," he murmured. "I want to do you," so Childermass obligingly rocked the pair of them together with some warm oil, and Mr Norrell whispered sweet dirty nothings until he finished as well. 

"All those books!" protested Mr Norrell as soon as he came back to himself a bit. 

"Actually, sir, whenever I did not have occasion to wash my hands before picking up a book, I had the seller handle it and turn the pages while I assessed it. Then I had it wrapped in waxed cloth to keep it clean and dry. And whenever I came home, first thing I did, before I came to see you, was wash my hands." Childermass smiled. 

"Thank you," sighed Mr Norrell. Childermass knew how to tease him into near-outrage, but he then knew how to soothe his ruffled feathers very well. 

They had another bath. Childermass had brought another towel "just in case". 

"Just in case I needed another bath straight after the first one, Childermass?"

"Exactly so, sir."

Well, he couldn't exactly object to Childermass knowing what he liked, he supposed. He was lazy and let Childermass wash him again, and Childermass chuckled softly and said, "I really have worn you out for once," and Mr Norrell said, "I want to go to sleep now."

But Childermass said firmly that he wasn't going to let anyone catch him carrying his employer, because that really might make for a scandal, and here were his warm night-clothes and banyan to wrap up warm, he'd be in bed very quickly, and if Mr Norrell put the labyrinth up he could settle down in Childermass' arms all night.


	6. The retirement of The Dreadful Scrapbook

_Late spring, 1807_

Later on, he saw this period of relative peace as almost blissful. At the time, of course, he felt the want of respect particularly keenly, and fretted every day about how nobody knew who he was, so how was he going to get his start in London. 

Childermass kept coming up with ideas, and Mr Norrell kept coming up with excellent reasons why the ideas wouldn't work. Starting with, "I am not that sort of man, Childermass, and if that is the sort of man England needs then perhaps we had better go home and let them look for him."

But Childermass knew him well enough to realise that it was a sore point, and despite the fact that Mr Norrell knew how to make conversation as well as a fish knows how to fly, Childermass was going to do _something._

Therefore Mr Norrell and Childermass were on their way to a party, despite the fact that Mr Norrell explained that he wanted to go back and read a book. 

He still wished very strongly to go home and read a book, but he couldn't yet come up with a good enough convincing reason to put against Childermass' excellent reasons to go into society and do what he had said he meant to do. Given the work Childermass had put into thinking things up, he would feel just a little ashamed to go home without trying anything. 

There was such a press of people, such an explosive roar of noise, so much brightness from all the lights... he forgot his pride, and his determination to at least meet Childermass half-way in making the effort, and tried to head right back out, except the path had closed behind him like a lost fairy road.

His second-best option was to find the least-intolerable room in the house, and after a while he stuck his head round a door and found a room empty of people but full of books. He was so upset he didn't trouble to find either a comfortable chair or an enjoyable book, but dug his heels in right by the ill-lit shelf and started to read _A Plaine Discouverie of the Whole Revelation of St John_. His legs were trembling very slightly. He was going to get the head-ach. 

Some gentlemen came in. The taller complained of the dullness of the party, given that the guest of honour had not yet appeared and was not likely to. He glanced at Mr Norrell and remarked, “ _That_ gentleman is reading a book,” as if reading were a last, desperate attempt at entertaining one’s self. Mr Norrell might have pointed out that nothing pleased him better than reading, but at this point the smaller man knocked his elbow against the book and gave him a cool look. 

Both turned away from him, and the prettier one (in a very fussy style that was not to his taste at all) began to boast about having met a _magician,_ who was one of his _closest friends._ Suddenly Mr Norrell was very interested indeed! Who was this person? Might he be a danger?

He did not really know how to react when the magician turned out to be himself. It would be terribly embarrassing for the man, but Mr Norrell could not stand by and let this falsehood go uncorrected. He tried for a time to catch their attention. Finally they noticed, and as modestly as he could, he stated, "I am Mr Norrell."

He almost admired the effrontery of the man. Turning his conversation upon a sixpence, this "Drawlight" (as he proved to be) revealed that he had passed through Hanover-square, seen Childermass, and mistaken him for the renowned magician. Drawlight babbled on, setting himself up to be Mr Norrell's dearest friend he had not yet met, a very John-the-Baptist, a voice crying in the wilderness to make way for "Mr Norrr-ELL!"

Mr Norrell frowned. Quite aside from dubious religious imagery, he did not care to have dear friends thrust upon him out of nowhere like this, and he was quite sure that when he put his name on that morning, it, like his linen-stock, did not have quite so many frills. 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The next day at breakfast Mr Norrell was in a panic, convinced that the “John-the-Baptist” fellow was a spy or a rival magician’s assistant. Childermass patiently explained to him that while Drawlight was a horrible excuse for a human being, his poor qualities were not going to impinge upon Mr Norrell, because he was sure that although his master was unworldly, that in itself was a protection against the more worldly sorts of behaviour. Mr Norrell calmed down after his explanation.

Mr Drawlight called upon Mr Norrell the next morning, partook of breakfast with him, and offered to introduce him into polite London society. He was as good as his word, taking Mr Norrell to dinner at Lady Rawtenstall’s house and promising many dinners and other social occasions to come.

Later that evening, as the rain beat against the window of Mr Norrell's bedroom, Childermass lay beside his master in bed and held him tightly. Mr Norrell went on about whether Mr Drawlight was a respectable companion and whether he has committed himself to social obligations that would not benefit the return of English magic. Indeed, might Mr Drawlight’s social circle cast an unfavourable light upon such magic?

Childermass chuckled and asked if he was going to follow Mr Drawlight into a gaming-hell and lose all the money he might spend on books.

"Oh, I see!" said Mr Norrell, much relieved. "I might get drawn into some sorts of fashionable London behaviour, but I would never want to do that. I am far too respectable, and I would never want to lose my book-buying money."

"Right enough," said Childermass. "Nor you don't fancy this Drawlight either."

Mr Norrell shuddered, and cuddled up close. The idea of becoming involved with Drawlight was about as attractive as seducing something venomous.

Childermasss seemed to gather as much from Mr Norrell’s attitude. He smiled and continued, “Well, then, sir, I doubt your association with Mr Drawlight will harm either you or English magic in the public’s eye.”

There was a long pause during which Mr Norrell relaxed and gradually began to think of other things. 

"Childermass?" he eventually inquired.

"Mm?"

"I'm not _completely_ respectable all the time." He squirmed illustratively. 

"As long as it's not Christopher Drawlight that's heating you up. Sir."

"You were the one who it brought up," Mr Norrell disdainfully quoted, _"fancying_ people. That just reminded me it's been weeks," he added. 

"It's been _a_ week, sir," Childermass said with a little mocking grin.

"I suppose I always have the Dreadful Scrapbook," Mr Norrell said, shrugging rather disappointedly. 

"Now, there's no need to have recourse to that, sir," said Childermass. He moved his hips, presenting himself. 

Mr Norrell sighed happily. "Thank you, Childermass." He admired the man before him, particularly the frankly impressive bulge at his crotch, and licked his lips. "Could I ... put it in my mouth? Please?"

The one and only time he'd experimented with fellatio it hadn't gone at all well. He'd been eager and in a hurry to try to get it right down his throat. It hadn’t gone well, what with him nearly choking and nearly biting the recipient of his attentions. Childermass had told him, very dryly, that he’d prfer mouth-and-hand _without_ choking to all the way down _with_ chocking. They'd ended up doing something easier. 

That had been long ago, and now Childermass looked at him in some surprise. "Is that because it excites you, or because you don't like to be beaten?" he asked. 

"Ah ... both?" said Mr Norrell, wondering if that was the right answer. He _did_ like the idea of sucking. There was something wicked and delicious and altogether exciting about it. He loved the image of squeezing his mouth onto it and _moaning,_ as though it was impossibly large and he was being used without mercy. He imagined that he would hae to, absolutely _have to_ touch himself as he sucked it, trying frantically to synchronise having one hand on Childermass, the other on himself, and Childermass in his mouth as well. Childermass would have to hold him straight by his head to help. The thought of kneeling on the floor while Childermass moved him to his own pleasure was intensely arousing. 

Now he knelt down.

Childermass stared at him uncertainly and stroked his hair, very gently. "Are you going to be good this time?"

"And not run at you like some sort of devouring monster? I think I shall try. It was most unfair to be made to stop."

Childermass snorted. "That's the lesson you learned, is it? That you'd rather not stop?"

"Of course. While I was getting it right, for both of us, it was lovely."

"Well, yes, it was. Up to a point. All right, take me out—and go slowly."

He struggled with the fastenings. Childermass' clothes were not exactly arranged like his (and he often didn't find his own easy). 

Eventually, Childermass helped him and they both managed it. 

Childermass sprang free, and he gently caressed the shaft as he kissed the tip. He savoured the first moment of wondering whether it would fit, and telling himself not to be so foolish, it didn’t have to go in that far and he shouldn’t force it. He undid himself, as well. Even if this was mainly for Childermass' benefit, he had no intention of doing without. 

He used his tongue very thoroughly all over the tip, where it was most sensitive, using the flat and the point of his tongue in turn. While he worked, he gave the shaft some firm squeezing, which reminded him to attend to himself. He used his left hand on Childermass and his right on himself.

Childermass said breathlessly, "I can tell you're doing yourself. Every time you get a good squeeze in, you give me a nice tight suck."

Mr Norrell was somewhat impressed by the observation but not enough to stop. He was sucking and squeezing quite firmly now. After an indeterminate while of bliss, he let go of himself, and moaned disappointedly. 

"Mm?" said Childermass rather shakily. 

"I suppose I'd better not do it. I don't want to bite you if I get over-excited." He returned to his task.

Childermass watched Mr Norrell sucking and licking him, reaching down again to stroke his hair. Soon he rocked a little further into his mouth, and Mr Norrell understood (with a little thrill) that for once Childermass felt utterly selfish. Considering Childermass' usual concern for his master's pleasure, he rather liked it that Childermass was feeling the way _he_ sometimes did. He was also pleased because he knew that, selfish or not, Childermass would certainly provide for his pleasure as soon as he'd finished.

Besides, he could concentrate on the feel of Childermass sliding it into his mouth while he sucked greedily. He used the hand no longer on his own prick to rub Childermass' thighs and balls. He moaned around his mouthful as he played and looked up.

Childermass groaned hard, assuming an expression that looked almost like agony, and flooded his mouth with the strong, sharp flavour of himself. 

Mr Norrell swallowed what he could, and let the rest dribble as he caught his breath. "I liked that," he said, when he could. 

"So did I," said Childermass. As Mr Norrell made to get up, he put a hand softly on his shoulder. "No—stay there a minute."

He looked up again. 

"Just this once I want to look at you with me all over you," Childermass explained with a wicked smirk, so Mr Norrell knelt there all filthy and thought about Childermass looking at him. The real thing was even more exciting than when he'd imagined the centaur seeing him like that. 

Eventually Childermass groaned and reached down to caress Mr Norrell’s chin with a finger. It encountered some drops of his seed, and he scooped them up and held the fingertip to Mr Norrell’s lips. Mr Norrell’s eyes dropped nearly closed as he continued to look into Childermass’ face. He slowly licked the sticky cream off Childermass’ finger. Childermass watched him and eventually picked up a handkerchief and wiped Mr Norrell’s face clean.

Mr Norrell scrambled to his feet. "I want..."

Childermass smiled. 

"... anything," Mr Norrell admitted. After a while getting quite worked-up he didn't care so much which particular flavour of "anything", it was. "As long as it's quick," he added. 

So Childermass stripped them both, and laid him in the bed, and they had a nice warm cuddle. 

"I said quickly," said Mr Norrell sulkily. 

"I know, sir," said Childermass. "Do you think you would like it if I gave you a bit of a rub?" He began to fondle him gently. Then he sucked a finger, and teased him behind. This was altogether unsatisfactory, like being hungry and being given crumbs to eat, so he tried to thrust just to get more, and Childermass said, "Is that right yet?" 

He snarled. Childermass _knew_ what worked, and wasn't providing it, but then Childermass gave a startling manoeuvre halfway between a squeeze and a pull, and the finger at his arse went in much harder, and it was all almost too hard and just enough and _suddenly everything_ \--and he screamed. 

The world went away. When it came back, Childermass was saying, "I _thought_ that would work."

Childermass was entirely too smug. "I thought it wouldn't," Mr Norrell said. 

"I've never seen you get quite that frantic," said Childermass. "I liked it, but I won't make you wait like that too often."

"Good," said Mr Norrell. He was glad he'd put the labyrinth up. He was in the mood to sleep next to Childermass. He yawned. "Shall you clean us the real way, or shall I do it the other way?"

He could still hear the rain as they fell asleep.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The next morning they lay cuddling for a long time. Eventually Childermass remarked, “I have not seen the Dreadful Scrapbook about lately. Is it safely hidden away in the usual spot.”

“Yes. I really do not need it now that I have you. In fact, I vow not to use it unless you go off on a journey that lasts over a week. Oh, but you will have nothing to see you through such a long period. Would you like to take the Scrapbook along with you?”

“Oh, I think not. For a start, it’s quite a heavy thing to carry about on horseback. Besides, I find it enjoyable only if I’m sharing it with you. Still, I envy you having a picture of me that you like so much—two, if we count the centaur picture as showing me. Would you mind having a good drawing of you for me to take with me?”

Mr Norrell stared at him, touched. “Of course, if you wish.” He thought for a while. “In fact, I think I shall only keep the picture or you and the centaur one, and I shall destroy the scrapbook itself.”

“Really? It is a genuinely clever collection, and very rare for showing the tastes of a gentleman who prefers gentlemen. It would be a shame to destroy it.”

“Perhaps you are right. I suppose I could put the Scrapbook in among the dangerous books in my collection. That way, when ultimately my books pass on to some great institution, most likely the Library of the British Museum, no one could suspect it kept it for any but respectable purposes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "But in the event, Mr Norrell's books did not pass from his possession.
> 
> Mr Norrell was not the last magician to discover the Dreadful Scrapbook.
> 
> But that, as they say, is another story"
> 
> See: "On the Same Page," by Predatrix


End file.
